“I heard the other day that she’d been taken in by some cad of a fellow who was cutting a great dash in Paris, personating Meysey Hill, the great railway man. “There’s another instinct, too,” he went on, “in a state of suppression, unless I’m very much mistaken; a child-expelling instinct. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. Even so much allusion as this to that family shadow, she felt, was an immense recognition of her ripening years. Annabel watched her with wide-open, terrified eyes. Sometimes I think you would have been much better off if you had been born in death-worshipping Egypt instead of in the Fourteenth Century. But I said I wouldn't drive a hard bargain with you, and I won't. It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance.
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